“If you’re referring to the retainer, that’s really between me and Mr. Costa. Attorney-client privilege—”
“You sure that’s the right course?”
The lawyer shifted in his seat. “In hindsight, the quoted retainer was probably high. Given the circumstances, that is.”
“By circumstances you mean Moss arguing at the podium with you perched pretty at the defense table? An easy eighteen in your pocket while another lawyer gets the case dismissed?”
“Search and seizure motions don’t always go as planned,” said O’Bannon, steadying himself on more familiar ground. “If Moss loses, we’re going to trial. While my quote is high for pretrial motions, I’m committed all the way to appeal. Am I overpaid sometimes? Sure, just enough to balance when I’m holding the short straw or no straw at all.”
A quick rap on the door interrupted Rea’s rebuttal. As instructed, O’Bannon’s paralegal had arrived with an escape route. Peeking her head through the doorframe, she said, “I’m so sorry to interrupt. Mr. O’Bannon, your conference call with Judge Binns starts in two minutes.”
Rea spoke first. “What’s your name, honey?”
The paralegal stepped inside. “Rosie,” she answered, flashing a nervous—almost embarrassed—smile as though a singer onstage had picked her from the audience.
“Rosie,” repeated Rea, his eyebrows tilted up toward his hairline. “You said the call was with Judge Binns?”
“Yes.”
“We’re in luck. Him and I go way back. Explain that Boss O’Bannon is meeting with Raymond Rea and we’ll be done when we’re done. Ain’t that right, Bill?”
O’Bannon raised his voice, his only tool for recapturing control. “You’ll just have to reschedule, Rosie. You know the routine. Explain that a client emergency has come up and offer my sincere apologies.”
Rea chuckled at the hasty charade. “Lies are a slippery slope. Truth—even an uncomfortable truth—is better than begging for forgiveness.”
“Rosie,” barked O’Bannon, embarrassed for proposing such a veiled ruse. “Reschedule for this afternoon and we should be fine. Thank you.”
The paralegal nodded, unsure of her next step. Her role only had one line. “Yes, of course,” she said, offering the men coffee and water on her way out. Both declined.
When they were alone again, Rea took the reins. “Nobody’s expecting you to work for free. This is still America. But the right retainer is eight grand, ten tops. Eighteen grand is taking advantage of a situation.”
O’Bannon opened his mouth only to be cut off by a wave of Rea’s right hand.
“I know what you’re going to say. That now—given this discussion—you’ll happily accept ten. Here’s the problem. When I get called in, I don’t negotiate to get even.”
O’Bannon’s eighteen grand was gone, and ten wasn’t looking much better. Then the thought occurred to him that maybe Rea was there for something else, another chip in play other than money or respect. Why else make the personal appearance? With the descent of the discussion, couldn’t hurt to take a shot. “I don’t think you’d come all the way up here to save Costa some money.”
“Good.”
“Good, what?” said O’Bannon.
“Good that you’re not as dumb as I feared. Good that you kept fighting for the angle.” The stick-and-carrot program had worked. Rea had taken a blindfolded O’Bannon into the valley and was now guiding him out a more humbled man.
“What do you want from me?” asked the attorney.
Rea returned to the window. He was better on his feet. Motion defined him. In his experience, success was never born from staying still or stepping back. “You know a lawyer named Norman Deeb?”
With his bald head and penchant for tweed, Norman Deeb didn’t fit the profile of a Philadelphia criminal defense attorney. As a Penn Law grad and former assistant U.S. attorney, he was different from the start and distanced himself further by never teaming with other lawyers on strategy. Well aware of the U.S. Attorney Office’s ninety-seven percent conviction rate, Deeb played the better odds, converting his clients into cooperating witnesses. On the street, they were called stool pigeons. He preferred the term free.
“Mr. Deeb’s got a new client,” said Rea, looking left and right out the window to test his line of sight. He could see as far as the Walnut and Spruce intersection before the building’s facade clipped his view. “The client is a young man who’s been charged with involvement in the local meth market. Name’s Tommy Paschol.”
When a pause took hold of the room, O’Bannon asked what that had to do with him.
“You know Deeb. He hasn’t tried a case in fifteen years. When clients walk in his office, they’re not even offered a chair. Deeb makes a call and they head right to the prosecutors for a proffer and plea deal.”
“I don’t hear much bitching about him,” said O’Bannon.
“You’re not listening to the right people. I know all lawyers make deals—it’s how you slinks work—but Deeb pushes his clients beyond just trading guilty pleas for reduced charges. He has them naming names.”
O’Bannon had two plays. He could join in the conversation, injecting his cooperation at appropriate markers, maybe even garner some goodwill. Or he could go mute, hang the burden on Rea to make his case. He settled on a combination strategy, knowing his nature wouldn’t allow all of one over the other. “And you’re worried Deeb’s lining up Tommy Paschol,” he said, measured to not give it all away in the first sound bite.
“It hasn’t happened yet. The preliminary hearing was just three days ago. But as they get closer to trial I see no reason why Deeb would stray from his playbook.”
Like an underdog after a couple of quick scores, O’Bannon could feel the momentum shifting in his favor. “And true or not, you’re thinking this meth dealer might say something to hurt you or another interest you maintain.”
Rea turned back toward the conference table, hands working change in his pockets. “You familiar with a Port Richmond businessman named Anton Bielakowski?”
“Yes. Not personally, of course, but as a criminal defense lawyer, I know his reputation.”
“He makes me curious. I’ve been studying him, how he’s survived so long. You know, since he’s been in this country, he’s never seen the inside of a cell? Maybe for fighting or petty garbage in his younger days, but no serious stints.”
“Quite an accomplishment if true.”
Rea raised a hand like a witness taking the oath. “Oh, it’s true. I’ve lived double digits behind bars. This guy is almost eighty and has spent more money on dry cleaning than lawyers.”
O’Bannon’s head swayed side to side. “It’s my understanding he maintains a rather closed loop of associates. Specifically, Poles from Port Richmond. That’s it. His men all maintain real jobs and separate lives, so nobody gets the reputation of a full-time hood. On top of that, those people are comfortable keeping a low profile with their money. If you don’t act and look like a criminal, and you don’t brag about your crimes, it’s pretty tough to get pinched.”
“Exactly,” agreed Rea. “I like the way you put that—he’s got a closed loop. I don’t have that luxury. The family’s legacy and my ambitions require a broader circle. This, on occasion, poses a threat. Like when scumball Tommy Paschol gets arrested and hires Norman Deeb for his attorney.”
His mouth dry, O’Bannon regretted not asking Rosie for a bottle of water. His attempt to mimic and mirror Rea’s behavior—a jury technique for expressing similarity—now seemed shortsighted. “I understand the concern. Is there something you need me to do? Perhaps I could call Deeb. He’d probably refuse to talk, but maybe I could get a feel for his direction.”
“I just told you his direction. The next meeting, they’ll hammer out the details of a deal.” Rea was purposely vague. Best to let any proposals come from the lawyer’s lips.
O’Bannon understood the dance. “It’s not too late for Paschol to fire Deeb. Happens all the time. On
e lawyer handles the preliminary hearing, another comes in for trial. Hypothetically, you could talk with Paschol, persuade him that a different lawyer is in his best interests. Convince him he doesn’t need to do time because a jury trial is winnable, just not with his current lawyer. Deeb out, new guy in.”
“Yes,” said Rea, “another lawyer is the solution, one who doesn’t pimp out his clients to the prosecutors. Problem in this particular situation is that the defendant is part of another organization. He’s a War Boy.”
“Okay.”
“There are certain lines with the War Boys I’ve been asked to respect. One is communicating directly with staff. No contact allowed. Can exceptions be made? Sure, hell, I don’t know, but not before other avenues are exhausted. And that’s what I’m doing here.”
“Long way around the block for a man like you, considering the stakes.”
“I’ve got time for another option. Not much, though.”
O’Bannon now understood why Rea had come out so hard. He needed help, and Costa’s retainer was his leverage. “Soliciting another attorney’s client is an issue, though not impossible. Takes an experienced hand. I’d like to think there’d be some kind of appreciation for the effort.”
Terms of the deal were Rea’s specialty. Unless properly framed and inserted into a more deniable framework, they were the nuggets that always came back to bite the parties at trial. “Costa’s new retainer is forty grand. Payable today. Plus, if this War Boy gets handled right, I’ll consider bumping you up in the batting order for Moss’s spot.”
Daniel Moss, Esquire made plenty off his representation of the mob. Not from their fees—which often went unpaid—but from all the business flowing in from those seeking the same lawyer as the city’s bad boys. “Make it subtle,” said O’Bannon. “Too fast or abrupt and the rumors will start.”
“Easy, cowboy,” said Rea. “The word was consider, not guarantee. Moss knows where the bodies are buried, and I’m not kicking him out yet. Not before I see how you handle business.”
“That loyalty got you into this mess.” The conversation had wandered into O’Bannon’s natural kill zone, where he could nurture doubt via innuendo and a thousand small razor cuts.
“What, you talking about Moss?”
“He’s your legal counsel. Seems like for him, that means biding his time and waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
O’Bannon had to suppress his excitement. He took an extra breath and licked his lips to slow down. First he got the forty grand retainer, and now he had Moss on the ropes. “When you get pinched, Moss becomes the city’s newest rock star. He’ll be on the news every morning and night, making headlines and needing two extra girls to handle all the calls. After a week of headshots in the Daily News, he’ll start popping up in Stu Bykofsky’s gossip column while you’re eating chipped beef in lockup, waiting for your trial to start again on Monday.”
“You’d be any different?”
“Moss steps in for the client after they’ve gotten their tit in the ringer. Call me if you’re ever arrested, he says, then shows up at your cell with a fee agreement and a gold pen. I’m more proactive.”
“For example?”
“The War Boys. Moss should never have let that get so intertwined. He should have helped you create the appropriate structure for limiting liability. He didn’t, and now you’re exposed.”
“Going forward, how would you handle the liability part?”
O’Bannon could smell the win. “Every few months we’d sit down and walk through the pros and cons of your relationships. We’d address legal implications, layers of deniability, and review certain conversations that may contain telltale signs of government involvement. Maybe we even talk about trends at the DA’s office and what’s cooking with the U.S. attorney.”
Rea hated that he was almost impressed. “What does today’s visit tell you?”
“You’re letting the tail wag the dog. I understand the War Boys’ importance to you—my new Costa retainer tells me that. But this Deeb situation is a harbinger of things to come. If you were a corporation and they a necessary evil for transacting business, you’d buy them, rip off their competitive advantage, or destroy them. Hell, what if a rival gets in their ear and flips their loyalties? Trust me on this, those bikers are fire on a boat.”
The next likable lawyer Raymond Rea met would be his first. Whether it was Moss or the forked-tongue O’Bannon, he struggled being in the same room. Problem was, they often preached the truth. O’Bannon had the War Boy situation nailed dead to rights. Much of Rea’s power came from selling meth, which meant he was beholden until he could replace the motorcycle club’s manufacturing capabilities. He’d let the relationship get too loose, too obliging. The scales were out of whack. Proof was Paschol. Any other regime in any other generation would have killed the prick and whoever was sitting to his left and right. Instead, Rea was searching for a bloodless solution with an Irish mouthpiece.
As for O’Bannon, Rea decided to keep him on a string. Slick, yeah, but his willingness to push beyond what Moss ever offered was enticing. “Right now, don’t worry yourself so much about my house. Handle Deeb’s newest client and we’ll talk.”
Not knowing when he’d get another crack, O’Bannon wanted to propose one more inspired hustle. “I’m thinking there’s another way for us to make money together.”
“The retainer is more than generous.”
“Stay with me,” said O’Bannon, rubbing his face for an extra moment. Sure, Rea could funnel him extra clients, but after fifteen years practicing law he wasn’t looking to double his nuisance cases. What O’Bannon craved was a move across the street to City Hall, where juries heard the multimillion-dollar personal injury cases.
“This has nothing to do with the retainer,” said O’Bannon. “It’s a hundred times bigger.”
When Rea agreed to hear him out, the lawyer explained how many of Philly’s largest personal injury cases involved victims with relationships to Rea. These connections could and should be leveraged for a piece of the settlement. For example, a month earlier, the power company settled with a card-carrying delivery driver for ten million after he was electrocuted in South Philly. Parked on a tight one-way street, the driver was delivering Sheetrock when he brushed some low-hanging lines with his off-loading crane. A couple thousand volts traveled down the crane and into his handheld control unit. Witnesses said his chest glowed like a lightbulb. He lived, but without his hands, feet, or ass cheeks. The hard part of that case wasn’t proving liability or assessing the ten million in damages. The rub was getting the case in the first place. In the world of personal injury law, catastrophic injury cases against deep-pocket corporations were guaranteed lottery tickets. And that’s where Rea had been dropping the ball. With his union connections, Rea should be harvesting those cases and funneling them to a lawyer willing to pay a referral fee.
Rea’s response was exactly as O’Bannon had hoped. “Ten million? You’re shitting me.”
“As the lawyer on something like that, I can grab forty percent. If the case settles, I’ll split it with you fifty-fifty. If it goes to trial, sixty-forty, plus expenses. For that electrocution deal, your take-home would have been two million.”
Rea stood from the table. “I’m not agreeing to anything today. If a case like that ever walks in out of the blue, you’ll have my answer. And I expect you to act accordingly.”
“Of course,” said O’Bannon, never doubting the outcome. Raymond Rea’s type was genetically precluded from passing up such a deal. He’d be calling his union contacts with the new mandate before he was a hundred feet from the building.
“As for Mr. Costa’s retainer, it’ll be delivered within a few minutes of me leaving. The man will not speak and he is not to be asked any questions. Understood?”
“Of course,” said O’Bannon, already planning how to call his wife with another excuse for coming home late. Sure, she’d let him have it with both barrels, but current
events had him wanting to celebrate with his new girlfriend. Jewelry pickup, then drinks, dinner, some dessert, more drinks, and a room at the Ritz with a bucket of champagne and strawberries. No matter how sharp, his wife’s harping couldn’t override that menu.
Before departing, Rea had a final question, one he’d come up with while waiting for O’Bannon to arrive. “You have three defense lawyers working out of this office. As clients pay their retainers, that makes for a lot of cash coming in. What’s stopping a hustler from waiting outside and picking your pocket or bashing your head in?”
“Deposit slips.”
“They deliver the money to the bank?”
“Absolutely,” said the lawyer, fingers interlocked across his belly. “Some of them pay at noon intending to steal it back at five o’clock. And you know what? You can always tell which ones, too. When I hand them the deposit slip their faces are like, Shit, man, this dude’s got us figured.”
Rea rapped his knuckles on the table, as if checking whether anyone was home. “I don’t want that with my delivery. No deposit slip. No bank. He drops the money and walks out.”
O’Bannon chastised himself. Not the time to get too comfortable too soon. He assured Rea that wouldn’t happen with the Costa retainer because he was personally handling the money.
“Be careful,” said Rea. “Money attracts the oddest characters.”
“No worries. I’m a determined sort.” O’Bannon rose from his chair. “I’ll handle the retainer, just like I’ll take care of Tommy Paschol. When I play the charm card, I’m irresistible.”
Better be, thought Rea. Paschol’s life depends on it.
16.
GROWING UP, ANTON BIELAKOWSKI FIGURED his old man had all the answers. He could ask him anything—what to do with this, that, or the other—and the replies were quick and clear, a sharpened blade through dry grass. Method was the key; the old man kept it simple, knowing what he knew, drawing out reasonable lines when he didn’t. The neighborhood said Bielakowski was cut from the same cloth, judgments guided by an unwavering confidence and worldview. No confusion. No debate.
The Friendship of Criminals Page 12
